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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341478">I Will Follow You Into the Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>House M.D.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cancer Arc, Denial, Euthanasia, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Finale, Suicide, Terminal Illnesses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:01:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As Wilson nears the end of his life, he asks House for one final favour.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg House/James Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Will Follow You Into the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is probably as grim as it sounds - please heed the tags. trigger warnings for discussions of suicide and euthanasia. </p><p>given some of the content and dialogue, i also feel like it's important to supply a disclaimer that it's not my intention to express an opinion on euthanasia either way with this story.</p><p>also contains depictions of terminal cancer. actual death isn't graphic.</p><p>Here is a list of suicide helplines for a number of countries around the world:<br/>https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life has become a sequence of false names and dead-eyed motel clerks.</p><p>House knows Wilson deserves better than a room at some roadside dive in the south, more than a hard slab of a bed that smells like cheap hair gel and despair. But Wilson doesn’t complain - not about the stains on the carpet, or the fact that they need to slam the door three times to activate the lock. Then again, House presumes things like personal safety seem less of a priority when you’re three months from death.</p><p>He says this aloud, and Wilson laughs, because they make these sorts of jokes all the time. After all, they are doctors, and things like cancer and dying are just biological realities, a bit like farting - and plenty of people joke about that.</p><p>You have to laugh.</p><p>House takes Wilson’s jacket. In the absence of a hatstand he shrugs and lays it (carefully) on the floor. Wilson narrows his eyes in resigned disgust before allowing himself to be drawn into an embrace. He presses his face into House’s shoulder; he inhales, indulges in his scent. They savour one another at every chance they get these days, without subtlety or shame. It's making up for lost time; trying to cheat the years they no longer have.</p><p>It isn't right that Wilson should have to lay low in his final months. He shouldn’t be checking into shabby, decaying motels under a pseudonym with a man who’s supposed to be dead. It seems especially unfair that he has to lie awake at night, wondering if anyone is looking for him, if anyone ever even reported him missing; not that he wants to be found, but it'd be nice to know that his absence provoked concern. He should really let it go - he'll never find out.</p><p>House shrugs off his own jacket, lets it hit the floor without finesse, and draws a smiling Wilson into a kiss.</p><p>Wilson tried so hard to be a good guy. He may not have always succeeded, but fate owes him more than making his chest burn so much some days that he has to forgo a trip he'd been looking forward to, a meticulously planned adventure. His bucket list is starting to resemble an incomplete bingo card, so frequent are the cancellations getting. He says some really dumb shit on the bad days, things like <em>maybe I don’t have three more months after all</em> and <em>I think it’s spreading to my blood</em>. House doesn't like this talk; he chooses words just insensitive enough to snap him out of it, and when Wilson starts to feel better, he snorts and scoffs and berates him for his pessimism. But not much. Fighting with Wilson over anything just feels stupid now.</p><p>And besides, Wilson deserves much, much better than spending his final days getting yelled at for being sick and afraid. </p><p>But now, Wilson laughs, as House guides him towards the lousy bed with the corniest growl he can feign. He lets himself be shoved onto the mattress, making a little noise of surprise as House pounces with as much playful vigour as his bad leg will allow. He curls his fingers into the crooks of Wilson's elbows as he lowers his mouth to his neck; he grazes lazy, wet kisses across his throat. He's been dying to do this all day. To get close. Intimate.</p><p>“House.” Wilson is still chuckling, a little breathless. His hands are firm and stationary on House’s shoulders. “I was gonna…”</p><p>“It can wait,” House grunts in interruption, tongue lapping at the hollow behind Wilson’s clavicle. He tastes like fumes, the open road. “We’re busy.”</p><p>“<em>House.</em>” Wilson protests with a little more gusto this time. His arms give House’s shoulders a gentle push; they’re always careful with each other these days. “We should talk.”</p><p>Although House never likes hearing that phrase out of Wilson's mouth, he rolls his eyes and relents. He draws his mouth away, sliding his tongue over his lower lip. He commits the taste of Wilson’s skin to memory for the thousandth time.</p><p>“You realise I spent, like, 20 years waiting for you to put out, right?” he says, with a mocking pout. “And now that you actually do - regularly and awesomely - you won’t let me make the most of it?”</p><p>“And I’ve spent 20 years dealing with your emotional manipulation. By your standards, that sucked.” Wilson shifts pointedly beneath him. “I need you to listen to me for a moment. It’s important.”</p><p>House groans and slides off of him, rolling onto the pitted mattress. The pillow is flat and too soft; he rests his cheek on the edge to avoid his head plunging into the middle of it. “Alright, fine," he says. "Make it quick."</p><p>Wilson turns onto his side. He squints a bit, like he did earlier on his bike; but there’s no sun in his eyes this time. “Okay. So. When the cancer gets really bad…”</p><p>“You’re an absolute delight today.” House cuts him off again. It's instinctive in a way that he can't explain. “Didn’t we decide that cancer was boring?”</p><p>“No, you decided that. I’m the one who made a career out of it, and now <em>has </em>it, so excuse me for letting it hold my interest.” Wilson's gaze drops to House's chest; he raises a hand uselessly. “I need to ask you something. It’s pretty big.”</p><p>"Sure." House flicks Wilson’s nose with the tip of his finger. “Anything for you, honeybuns.<em>"</em></p><p>When Wilson's mouth doesn't even twitch with exasperated amusement, House can no longer ignore the dread rising within him like heat. The frown he offers feels taut and wary on his lips.</p><p>Wilson's eyes drop again; they affix to the off-white sheets beneath them. “I'm gonna get really sick soon," he says, solemn, businesslike, as if House doesn't realise this. "And when I do, I'd like you to help me.”</p><p>House is silent as he processes this. Picks at it, analyses, considers. He quickly decides he must have misunderstood, identified subtext that Wilson never intended to put across. He always concludes the worst, after all.</p><p>A yell leaks through the ceiling, followed by a thud. Traffic howls over the mumble of next door's TV.</p><p>“Well, of course I’m gonna <em>help </em>you,” House says eventually. “I've been informed my bedside manner kinda stinks, but I’ll give you all the sponge baths you could want...”</p><p>“You know what I mean, House,” Wilson interrupts, quiet and steady. </p><p>The guy upstairs roars this time, a monosyllable that House can't decipher. He discerns that next door are watching a rerun of <em>Friends</em>. Life goes on.</p><p>He swallows, roaming his gaze over Wilson’s face; he searches his avoidant, nervous expression, desperate for something that confirms he's mistaken. His throat burns with the question he'd rather not ask, the clarification he hardly dares to seek: “You’re asking me to help you die, aren’t you?” </p><p>Wilson’s jaw is tight. As he slowly dares to look up, his eyes are shimmering with hope for the first time in three months. His head jerks out a faint nod.</p><p>House scoffs. “You cannot be serious.”</p><p>“House, just think about it.” Wilson’s tone is soft, edged with patience. The bastard sounds like an actor; he was <em>expecting </em>this. "You know as well as I do what’s ahead of me. I…” His lips suck inward, then jut out. “I just <em>can’t </em>.”</p><p>“And this is your solution? Me killing you?” House speaks as derisively as he can, because Wilson clearly doesn't realise how <em>stupid</em> this is.</p><p>“Don’t talk about it like that!”</p><p>Wilson looks aghast; and then, genuinely confused. He props himself up on an elbow, reaching out to touch House’s shoulder. House promptly shrugs him off and rolls onto his side, turning his back. He eyes the yellowing radiator on the adjacent wall, the cracked beige paint around it.</p><p>The thought of Wilson dying in a cheap, crummy motel room sends him reeling with nausea.</p><p>A sigh echoes from behind him, but Wilson doesn’t try to touch him again. “You’ve done it before, House,” he insists. “<em>I’ve </em>done it before. And we do it with damn good reason! You know I’m getting worse. I’m tired, I’m dizzy, I’m...” </p><p>His voice is rising; there’s a pause, then another little exhale, as he wrestles to get ahold of himself. </p><p>“Dying slowly from this disease is gonna be beyond unpleasant." When Wilson speaks again, he's chosen to employ the most irritating weapon in his arsenal - The Cancer Voice - and House isn’t feeling generous enough to be amused by the irony. “I know you don't want that for me. You'd just be doing what any decent doctor would do.”</p><p>“You know who else sucks at emotional manipulation? You.” House wraps an arm around himself. He tries not to shut Wilson out anymore, he tries so, <em>so </em>hard, but right now, he doesn’t deserve to come in. "Sure, so I've put a few withered old zombies out of their misery. That was different. I didn't... <em>love</em> them." </p><p>His voice shrinks until he trails off. He finds himself thinking of Thirteen. He pictures her filling a syringe with quivering hands, kissing her dying brother goodbye; her eyes closing in quiet, resigned horror as she pushed the plunger, sparing him the hell of advanced Huntington's. He wonders, not for the first time, where she is. <em>How </em>she is.</p><p>He remembers the promise he made to her just after she got out of jail, and he's not sure if he ever really meant it.</p><p>“I know you love me.” Wilson’s voice is unnervingly steady again. “But consider this. If the people we euthanise have family, friends, whatever, who love <em>them, </em>don’t you think they’d be grateful? If they knew that you ended their suffering?” </p><p>“Okay, seriously now, shut the hell up. The answer is no.” House’s blood warms, his stomach tightens. He finds himself praying he’s hallucinating. “I already stand a good chance of going to jail for the rest of my life if I get caught out here with you. You wanna add murder to my list of charges?”</p><p>“Oh, House, don’t.” Wilson clicks his tongue. It’s such a familiar sound, so reminiscent of past fights that seem pathetic now. “It’s <em>not </em>the same as murder, and you know that as well as I do.”</p><p>“You’ve gotten a lot stupider since you’ve been sick,” House snaps. “Or maybe you’re just trying to be edgy again. Kyle Calloway, right? I really didn’t like that guy.”</p><p>No, he doesn’t want any conflict, not now, not whilst every second is so precious; but sometimes Wilson is such an impossible fucking asshole that he can’t help himself. House shifts away from him and lurches upright, throwing his feet to the floor with as much force as his leg will allow. He eyes his cane, propped up by the door; he dragged Wilson into some hopelessly quirky store to buy it a few weeks back, purely because it has a flame pattern at the base. It’s not as good as its predecessor, but it feels like some semblance of connection to the life he once had. </p><p>The bed makes an ugly creaking sound as Wilson sits up. “Where are you going?” he demands.</p><p>“I need some air.” House makes his way towards the door with some difficulty, trying not to huff in pain. God, he misses Vicodin. “Don’t follow me.”</p><p>Wilson hisses. "Okay, fine, whatever. Just be careful out there.”</p><p>“Why?" he snaps. "Not much that can happen to a dead man.”</p><p>House spends an awkward few moments tugging and jiggling, swearing at the faulty door handle before finally yanking it open. It spoils his dramatic exit, which pisses him off so much that he slams his way out. It shakes the window; a confused noise echoes from the occupant next door. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbles.</p><p>The world feels dreamlike, off-kilter. This, House reflects as his cane strikes the ground, is why he hates it when Wilson wants to talk. Nothing good ever comes of it.</p><p>**</p><p>Three weeks pass, and they don’t leave the motel. They’re behind schedule - but it’s okay. It just means Wilson will need to make some annoying decisions about the stops he wants to cut out along the way. The important thing is that they make it to New Orleans. And they will. As soon as Wilson feels well enough to travel again.</p><p>He sleeps a lot. It’s four in the afternoon, and his sweatpant-clad legs are tangled in the bed sheets. House lays beside him and trails lazy patterns over his curled back with his fingertip, listening to the slow, even wisps of his breaths. He said something in the morning about wanting to go out to eat tonight, but House knows he won’t feel like it later. His energy ebbs and flows, but his interest in the little things he used to live for is on a steady decline. He doesn't even shave anymore. That in particular scares House a lot; so he decides not to think about it. </p><p>But his mind never stops. He tries to relax, to calmly let his thoughts pass the way Dr Nolan taught him (and how he’d scoffed at the idea); but it isn’t long before he’s fixated again. He first noticed it around a week ago - Wilson’s voice is changing. It’s raspy, feeble. It dips in and out, it wanes and wavers until fragments of sentences get lost altogether. Of course, thymoma’s symptoms were always going to catch up with Wilson eventually. House just never expected this one to bother him quite so much. And today is the worst it’s been.</p><p>He shifts closer to Wilson on the mattress, carefully draping an arm around his waist. He drags his lips through his unwashed hair, inhales the musk of grease and the strange scents from the pillowcases, and he loves him and loves him, and none of this is fair.</p><p>Wilson’s voice used to do many different things. There was the lilt of near-hysteria whenever he was mad enough to yell. It would deepen, like he was warning a wayward dog, if he delivered some ethical lecture that House snarked at and pretended to tune out, whilst he privately swallowed every word. It got a little pitchy whenever he found something really funny, and it melted with affection when he and House were alone. The way it never did with his wives.</p><p>In hindsight, it’s easy to wonder what you were so afraid of.</p><p>House kisses the nape of Wilson’s neck as he recalls how awed and familiar Wilson’s voice sounded when he said <em>I love you </em>for the first time, on the night that began their last five months together. They were tired, unguarded, lying on the first of many unfamiliar beds in a hotel about a hundred miles from Princeton (Wilson checked in as Kyle Calloway - it was the only time either of them had managed a laugh). House’s voice had cracked as he told Wilson he loved him too, always had, always would, as they made love for the first time, hands interlaced, eyes locked and shining, lips savouring every crevice of skin they could reach. They’d mumbled raw, nonsensical declarations of affection and pain as they wept and held onto each other, grieving for the years they’d wasted justifying and explaining away how they truly felt. Picturing the lives they could have lived; resenting the ones they led instead.</p><p>Afterwards they’d lain awake all night, limbs intertwined, inhibitions annihilated. House had been unable to hold back his shameless whispers, <em>I need you </em>and <em>please don’t leave me </em>and <em>I can’t go on without you </em>as their wet cheeks slid together. Wilson had remained silent as he kissed every inch of House’s face, because for the first time in 20 years, he had nothing comforting to offer.</p><p>Wilson mumbles something in his sleep; House whispers a <em>ssh</em>, sweeping his fingers over a stray lock of hair.</p><p>Wilson’s voice grounded him through those awful first two weeks of the trip, in that same hotel room, as House commenced his detox. He distracted House from the bitter grief of his final Vicodin pill by rubbing his shoulders and talking him through some of his favourite memories: impromptu road trips, monster truck rallies, moving into their apartment together (he left out the part where Sam descended like a cackling witch and fucked it all up, but small resentments like that didn’t matter anymore). While House puked and trembled and perspired, Wilson rubbed his back and forced him to stay hydrated, murmuring soft reassurances and reminders that it would pass. House snapped, swore, insulted; later, he found it within himself to insist that he didn’t mean it, which had surprised them both. His leg screamed, the pain rearing like a beast freed from captivity; but he clung to Wilson’s murmurs, the soft, lulling tones he used on his dying patients. It was the reminder he needed that he was doing this for Wilson in the first place. He couldn’t continue with the Vicodin, not if it meant fucking around with making connections in every town they stopped in. Time was no longer his to waste.</p><p>Wilson, of course, forgave him for pissing away their first fortnight. <em>It is what it is, </em>he’d said.</p><p>House still stands by his response: <em>That’s the stupidest cliche on earth.</em></p><p>Wilson grunts. His shoulders graze House’s chest as he stirs. His eyelids flicker, then peel open. He raises a hand to his damp forehead. “Hey,” he mumbles. “How long was I out?”</p><p>“Oh, not that long.” House smiles against his neck. “Only since yesterday afternoon.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Asshole.” Wilson grunts again and swats at him as he rolls onto his back, rubbing at one pink, bleary eye. </p><p>“Relax.” House shifts to make room for him, his veins constricting as they share a faint smile. “It’s been about two hours. I watched over you like a creepy nanny the whole time.”</p><p>“Thank you. I can’t even begin to tell you how comforting that mental image is.” </p><p>Wilson yawns, hand reaching for House’s where it rests over his sweater. He’s cool to the touch despite his heavy clothing, the suffocating bedsheets he’s still wrapped in. House tries not to react to the slight moisture of his palm as he interweaves their fingers and kisses at his temple. Wilson, he reminds himself, is just having a bad spell right now. They come in waves. It’ll pass.</p><p>“I had this dream,” Wilson says, a meditative smile playing on his lips. “You were in it.”</p><p>“Oh?” he hums. ”Was I naked?”</p><p>“Unlike you, there’s more to my subconscious than just porn.” Wilson’s breath laps at House’s face as he speaks, warm and slightly malodorous. “You were wearing a Mudhoney t-shirt that was too big for you and jeans that went out of style in the late seventies. And you had no facial hair.”</p><p>“Like the night we met?” House finds himself grinning.</p><p>“It was the night we met.” Wilson’s eyes close again, and House frowns, because he has a habit of drifting off mid-conversation lately; but then he gives a satisfied murmur. “It was just us in the bar, alone. I didn’t have my divorce papers. We were dancing.”</p><p>“Were you throwing your dad shapes?” House presses. He wants to know everything about this dream. “Because it’s highly optimistic of you to think that I’d be anywhere nearby if that was the case.”</p><p>“No,” Wilson protests, dragging out the ‘o.’ “We were slow dancing, I guess. You had your arms around me.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>puke</em>. And you implied that <em>my </em>subconscious is gross.” House brushes his lips against Wilson’s cheek, as if to apologise for his need to demolish anything vaguely sentimental.</p><p>“Fuck you, it was nice,” Wilson retorts lazily, because he knows not to expect anything different. “A little weird, though. There was no music. Just us, and silence.”</p><p>“Well, given that you trashed the place the last time you heard a song you didn’t like, that’s probably a good thing.” He kisses Wilson’s lips this time, and they feel cracked and dry against his mouth. “Kinda ruins the mood.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Wilson groans. “Jesus, I was a mess that night.”</p><p>“You were <em>my </em>mess,” House declares, squeezing his hand.</p><p>“<em>Puke,</em>” Wilson says smugly. He pauses; his mouth thins out into something more thoughtful. “That’s, uh, not all of it though.”</p><p>House smirks. “I banged you over the bar, didn’t I?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Wilson says, a little snappily. Another moment of hesitation; then, “Amber was there too.”</p><p>House’s thumb, which has been tracing little patterns on the back of Wilson’s hand, stops its ministrations. “Uh, okay. Context?”</p><p>“She was watching us.” Something pained passes through Wilson’s face; quickly evaporates, like it was never there at all. “She was smiling, House. She looked happy.”</p><p>House frowns. “Your dead girlfriend gave us her blessing?” Years of deliberate insensitivity have become habit, and he smarts with regret as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Wilson, however, doesn’t even wince. Which kind of makes it worse.</p><p>Wilson’s eyes open, and he shifts his arm, trapped between them, until his hand is resting lightly on House’s face. “She’d want us to be together,” he says quietly. “She’d want us to be happy. I’m sure of it.”</p><p>House’s throat tightens. He hears screeching tyres, breaking bones, the dull slaps of strange bodies slamming off of windows, walls, each other. He can almost smell Amber’s blood on his hands as he visualises her arms sprawled over broken glass, her eyes wide with confusion and then horrified understanding. The agony roaring through his skull, mere background noise as he urged her, <em>stay with me.</em></p><p>“How are your dreams this weird?” is all he manages, after too many notes of silence. “You’re only on ibuprofen.”</p><p>Wilson shrugs, his fingertips grazing the wisps of hair just above House’s ear. “I wanna talk about Amber, House.”</p><p><em>Stay with me. </em>He finds himself tense, but determined. “Sure,” he murmurs.</p><p>Wilson huffs a little with exertion as he shifts onto his side. “Once Amber knew she was going to die, she accepted it very quickly.” He pauses; a faint smile touches his lips, but there’s something bitter about it. “I know what you’re going through, House.”</p><p>House's brow hardens. “Those seem like two wildly different statements.”</p><p>“Let me finish,” Wilson says, with an air of gentle patience that only serves to annoy House more. “My point is, <em>I </em>couldn’t accept it. I wanted to make it stop. I wanted more time. And do you know what she said to me?” </p><p>He falters, and his hoarse tones would hide the crack of emotion in his voice if House hadn’t become so familiar with it lately. </p><p>“She said, ‘We’re always gonna want just a little longer.’ And it’s true. I know that you want me to be around for as long as possible. But…”</p><p>He trails off. House feels those fingertips, gentle, stroking, <em>loving</em>; and that “but” makes him shy away from his touch. “What are you talking about?” he demands. “You don’t want a little more time?”</p><p>Wilson’s shining eyes flash. “That’s not what I said. Of course I <em>want </em>more time...”</p><p>“You said you wanted to talk about Amber<em>. </em>Not me.” House closes his eyes a moment; just to assuage his swelling terror, leash his raising voice. He can’t get mad at Wilson. Not now, when his pallor is so pronounced, when he’s dazed and scared and doesn’t even know what the hell he’s saying. “This is... different,” he tries again. “And you know it.”</p><p>A tear slips from the corner of Wilson's eye, pools on the bridge of his nose. "“Amber died in my arms, House. I want to die in yours.”</p><p>“<em>Wilson</em>.” House’s hand tightens around his. He slides closer on the pillow until their foreheads are touching. “We’re not gonna think about that right now, okay?”</p><p>“I want it to be peaceful.” It’s difficult to tell if Wilson is whispering or if his voice has petered out again, until his chest shudders with silent emotion. “Amber was peaceful. She was happy. She barely felt a thing.”</p><p>“<em>Stop</em>. Now.” As Wilson flinches, House stiffens. <em>Mustn't yell.</em> He moves Wilson’s hand off his face, sitting up. “Come on. No more Amber.” </p><p>He lifts Wilson into his arms like a baby; positions him against his flank. He holds his head firmly to his chest. Wilson is limp, dead weight for a moment. When he eventually relents, he slips his arms cautiously around House’s waist.  </p><p>“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Rest. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”</p><p>“Help me go like her, House. Peacefully.” Wilson has his eyes closed, his plea fading into the fabric of House’s shirt. “I don’t mean right now, not yet. But, when the time comes.” He draws a breath that ends in an audible sob.</p><p>House shakes his head, tightening his embrace to shut him up. “I already told you, no. I’m here, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”</p><p>“Not gonna get better. I don’t want the pain.” </p><p>House lets him mumble into his shirt, shuddering at the dampness his tears create. He sketches circles onto Wilson’s skull with his fingertips, soft and rhythmic, murmuring “hey”’s and “ssh”’s to seemingly little effect; but then Wilson’s pauses start to get longer. His lips graze House’s t-shirt; his shoulders drop.</p><p>“It’s okay,” House asserts again. He isn’t well versed in the art of comfort, and he repeats himself often. But he really tries.</p><p>“You’ve always been so fucking sanctimonious about the importance of logic.” Wilson's nose is pressed into House’s sternum. He gives a faint shake of his head. “And now look at you. Denial is <em>not </em>logical. If I was anybody else…”</p><p>“<em>Ssh</em>, James.” </p><p>House renews his hair stroking with vigour, quiet rage, as Wilson’s statement rips through him like a tsunami.</p><p>**</p><p>House banished Vicodin because it would interfere with their plans. He’d be combing through every city to find a dealer, an ER department that wouldn’t ask too many questions, and both options came loaded with risks. Besides, if he failed, he’d be dopesick and useless, and if he succeeded, he’d only need to repeat the process in their next destination; and Wilson would grumble and complain, but he’d wait, he’d enable, and he’d understand and he’d forgive. After 20 years of doing exactly that, he deserved some respite in his final months.</p><p>But as another week slips by, ibuprofen barely laps at the edges of Wilson’s chest pain, and House drinks scotch from noon until the early hours to cope with his leg. He makes the decision to ask around the motel. One guy can do Valium; another “might be able to get codeine," and House laughs in his face. By the time House finds someone who can actually help him, walking is a mammoth task and he’s sick with fear that Wilson might have done something stupid while he was gone. He never likes to leave him by himself for too long anymore.</p><p>Dying is abstract. Its parts rarely slot neatly into the sequences they shove down your throat at med school, but you won’t know this until you meet it in all its revolting glory. House has had almost two thirds of his life to acquaint himself with the signs, and it’s not that he doesn’t recognise them; but Wilson isn’t ready. It’s only been three months. It makes no sense that he should be so weary, lazy. That fighting is losing its appeal. He lays in bed all day, curled up with the fear that makes him irrational. Tricks him into interpreting every cough, fatigue and aversion to meals as indications that he’s fading. </p><p>House can’t let himself get sucked into it. </p><p>The mood swings are new, and they’re hell. House has seen Wilson angry before. He’s watched him throw his hands in the air, against his hips, as he’s lectured and scolded; assaulted House with the deeply personal criticisms that cut him down to the bone, the kind that only those who are truly close to you can give. But lately, Wilson’s rages are unreasonable and wild. He shoves House away if he tries to rub his back when the pain makes him vomit. If House doesn’t back off, he says things that are less hurtful truths than blatant gratuitous insults. They hurt, they scald, they stab; but never as much as the instances where Wilson breaks down, grabbing fistfuls of House’s clothing as he dissolves into wailing, gulping sobs like a child. In those moments, all House can do is swaddle his friend in his arms, throwing his eyes to the ceiling as he considers prayer an option for the first time in his life.</p><p>But tonight, Wilson is happy. The Vicodin tears holes in his pain, represses his cough. His opiate naivety allows him a sort of giddy tranquillity, whereas House is comfortable and relieved. His leg is placated, enjoying the rush with them. But it doesn’t compare to the more potent analgesia of hearing Wilson laugh again.</p><p>It’s just past midnight, and they’re lying on a stretch of grass behind the motel. It may not be far, but at least Wilson is out; it’s the first time he’s tasted fresh air in a while. The sky is clear and perfect, like in a movie. The stars glimmer, the moon a sharp tipped crescent bathing their faces in ethereal hues. They lie side by side, Wilson’s ankles crossed, his hands clasped behind his head. House runs his fingertips through soft knots of grass, absently picking them out of the ground like stitches.</p><p>Wilson wants to talk tonight, about a lot of different things. “Remember those fucking chickens?” </p><p>“Yep.” House feigns a sigh. “I remember every bet I lose with bitter resentment.” </p><p>He doesn’t have much to say himself. Wilson has been rattling off memories like he’s speeding, and House is quietly enjoying them. He’s slowly getting used to the flimsy tones of Wilson’s voice, the catches, the cracks. </p><p>“I thought Masters was gonna have an aneurysm,” Wilson laughs. “Hey, you know she came to your funeral, right?”</p><p>House can’t help but grin at this, because the thought of dear old Masters showing up to pay her last respects is funny in a way that he can’t explain - but he cuts off any thoughts in that vein abruptly, because funerals are basically synonymous with death, and he’s chosen not to think about that tonight.</p><p>He’s aware of Wilson’s head turning in his periphery. “Are you okay, House?”</p><p>He still asks this, all the time. It’s like he forgets that the rules have changed, that he is not the caregiver in this relationship anymore. Or perhaps it’s simply that House is doing such a crappy job that he feels the need to step up. The thought spurs him on to roll onto his side, and it’s glorious to hear his leg merely grizzle rather than scream bloody murder at every tiny movement. He props his head up on one hand, and places the other over Wilson’s heart. </p><p>“I’m fine,” he promises. “Okay, here’s one: Remember that time you came over for Christmas?”</p><p>They’ve spent a lot of Christmases together, but Wilson’s eyes light up with immediate understanding. “The Chinese food? Oh, yeah. That place had the best orange chicken.”</p><p>“Hey, it’s not just about the Chinese food. I was also there.” House pouts in mock hurt. “I can’t believe I have to compete with noodles and MSG for your affections. And here’s me thinking it was only Julie I had to worry about back then.”</p><p>“Seeing as she didn’t speak to me for a week after that, I think she was pretty worried about you too.” Wilson speaks without bitterness, smiling faintly. “It probably didn’t help that I ended up telling her we kissed that night.”</p><p>“Wow.” House cocks an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “Well, that explains her murderous hatred of me a little better.”</p><p>“She just sort of rolled her eyes.” Wilson laughs again. “It was as if I told her I left the house without closing the windows. Like it was annoying, but not unexpected.” He pauses. “I wish we’d been braver, House.”</p><p>House doesn’t know what to say to this apart from a quiet “yeah”, so he roams his hand over the sweater Wilson has been wearing for the past week; suppresses a wince as he grazes his all too palpable ribcage. He and Wilson often kissed when they spent nights alone, usually with the stale encouragement of alcohol. Sometimes, Wilson would get handsy, and House would let him. It’d carry on until someone moaned, or pulled at the hem of a shirt, and then they’d spring apart, doe-eyed and nauseous with shame. Throats would be cleared, further drinks slammed back, and they’d never speak of it again. When they still had time to waste, it felt like a thrilling, dirty secret; an unspoken game of chicken, how far could they push. Something they never acknowledged or spoke of outside of the act.</p><p>As if hearing his thoughts, Wilson murmurs, “I should have told you I loved you that night.”</p><p>“Well.” House kisses his temple. “This was nice, until you made it weird.” </p><p>No one has ever said these sorts of things to him apart from Wilson. Nice things, things that make him feel wanted. But he still doesn’t quite know what to do with them. And Wilson appreciates this, even if he doesn’t like it, so he merely rolls his eyes. “I’m sick, House. I need you to tell me that you love me.”</p><p>“You <em>know</em>,” House complains. “I only said it yesterday.”</p><p>“Please.” Wilson isn’t playing anymore, and there’s something urgent in his eyes.</p><p>House relents. Moving his hand up to his jaw, he gently tilts Wilson’s head until he can reach his lips with his own, pressing a slow, lingering kiss there that Wilson eagerly returns. “You're still a manipulative bitch,” he murmurs, when he pulls away. “I love you, Jimmy.”</p><p>And then Wilson smiles, wide and bright and sincere.</p><p>Silence settles. A gentle breeze laps at their skin, their hair, the earth beneath them. With his own pain reduced and Wilson feeling as good as he can, House is the closest to content he can recall being in weeks. Perhaps they can start moving again tomorrow. If Wilson rests well, manages to eat something and keeps tolerating the Vicodin, maybe they can spend the whole of tomorrow on their bikes, roaring down endless stretches of tarmac as they reacquaint themselves with the things that have slipped to the backs of their minds. Excitement. Curiosity. Hope.</p><p>“Do you think you’d marry me, House?”</p><p>When House looks up from nuzzling Wilson’s shoulder with his lips, he appears entirely genuine. He must be, because his face is taut and a little stunned; like he can’t believe he vocalised that, but fears rejection all the same.</p><p>House stares at him for a moment, because he’s unsure of what to do with this question. “You mean actually marry you, or are we fighting over a chick again?” he says eventually.</p><p>“Do you see a chick?” Wilson raises his head and lowers his arms, rolling onto his side too. Their clothing grazes in the small gap. “I mean it,” he says, with slightly wide eyes. “Genuine proposal this time.”</p><p>House swallows. Blinks a little too slowly. “I’m dead. You’re missing. How?”</p><p>“It wouldn’t need to be official,” Wilson says quickly. “Or legal. We’d have to go somewhere else for that, anyway, and I don’t know if...” </p><p>He trails off, drawing a breath before House can fully process that statement. </p><p>“I’ve had the best times of my life with you,” he continues, cupping House's face in his hand. “And I’d love to be able to call you my husband, even if it’s only for a little while.” He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t know, maybe it’s just the Vicodin talking.”</p><p>Fucking weird hearing that coming out of Wilson’s mouth. House fixates on this, because he can’t conjure up a response. He’s never imagined himself married, never considered that anybody would even <em>want </em>to marry him. Stacy wasn't interested, and he’s certain it never even crossed Cuddy’s mind. Then again, she probably knew all along what a fated disaster their entire relationship would turn out to be. </p><p>But Wilson has always loved him differently. </p><p>His head droops. “Sorry. It was just a thought.”</p><p>“Jimmy.” House tilts him back up with a finger under his chin. “I didn’t say no.” Something slightly more hopeful creeps into Wilson’s expression as House twists his lips in thought. “What about when we get to New Orleans? Maybe we could get some bozo to read a script off the internet.”</p><p>“I don’t think we’re going to make it to New Orleans, House.” </p><p>Wilson says this with a faint, watery smile; and his body feels so delicate, like he could shatter, break.</p><p>“Shut up,” House says derisively, with a playful swat to Wilson’s shoulder. “So you’ve been a little crappy lately. Cancer isn’t exactly well known for making you feel like a million bucks.”</p><p>“Well, yeah, but…”</p><p>“You’re fine now you’re on the meds.” House gives a firm nod, draping an arm around Wilson’s waist. Wilson lets himself be drawn forward, but there’s an uncertainty in his demeanour that House decides he's imagining. “We can set off in the morning if you want. We can go slow and stop on the way…”</p><p>“I only just made it out here tonight.” Wilson’s voice rises slightly as he interrupts, but there’s no anger in it. His sigh breaks over the balmy midnight air. “I don’t think I’m gonna be getting on the bike again.”</p><p>“We’ll see how you feel,” House responds stiffly.</p><p>Wilson gives a nod, and House recognises it; it’s non-committal, a way of avoiding an answer. He’s seen him use it on his patients, especially the younger ones. Colleagues, when they ask him for a personal opinion he doesn’t want to share so that he might spare their feelings. His muscles clench; if Wilson stops fighting, this is over. Does he not <em>want </em>to go to New Orleans? Does he…?</p><p>“I don’t wanna get any sicker.” As Wilson’s whisper interrupts his thoughts, House realises he’s been staring again. He’s about to make his best attempt at a non-committal remark of his own in response when Wilson adds, “Will you think about what I asked you to do?”</p><p>He takes in the contours of Wilson’s face; the cheekbones that haven’t been so visible since he was in his thirties, the kiss of grey beneath his eyes visible even in the moonlight. His hydrocodone-constricted pupils, his lips cracked with dehydration. On his worst days, House has to physically hold a water bottle to his lips and yell at him to drink, running the very real risk of getting it knocked out of his hands as Wilson delivers something cutting; hoarse, weak, but mighty.</p><p>“Consider this,” House says, carefully, because he knows Wilson won’t consider what he’s about to say at all. “You still could go into spontaneous remission. What if I…” He falters. “What if I do what you’re asking, and we never know?”</p><p>“I’m dying, House.” Wilson says it so brazenly, so calmly, and that gentle half smile is still on his face. “I don’t really wanna risk seeing this through for a one in 100,000 chance.”</p><p>He hears what Wilson doesn’t say. <em>You’re being ridiculous. You know better than that. Come on, House. </em>But he’s choosing to hold it in where he might otherwise say it, because to vocalise it would just make things so much worse.</p><p>And that’s because Wilson is patient and gentle. It’s because he wants the best for House, and always has, even if he’s fucked up along the way. Even if, behind that kind and handsome veneer, he’s just as capable of being a selfish asshole as House is. Even if he has a better handle on it.</p><p>And House likes to think he wants the best for Wilson. Like the experimental chemo that night at his apartment. Those long hours where House fussed and paced and watched over him the way he’s never done with a patient, terrified of losing him. But that was before the MRI, when the threat of death was just that: a shapeless fear. Not something he truly believed would happen.</p><p>“What would I even do with… you?” House stops himself short of saying <em>your body. </em>It’s not that he’s one to shy away from morbid realities; but this is his best friend. His lover.</p><p>“We can figure it out.” There’s a perverted sort of longing in Wilson’s eyes. “All these little things, we can figure them out. I promise.”</p><p>He kisses the tip of House’s nose, and as he draws back House catches something different about his face. The lines that have recently grown out from his eyes seem more shallow, his lips a little slack. Wilson's relieved; thinks he’s wearing him down. </p><p>House opts to let him think he’s right. No use in spoiling an otherwise perfect evening.</p><p>He changes the subject.</p><p>**</p><p>They’re inching into their sixth week at the motel when the nightmares start. House tells himself it’s no big deal; he’s always had them, after all, his subconscious transforming the memories he can never quite touch into grand performative pieces. They can be vague, surreal, where he’s bruised and cold and running through one of many childhood backyards, choking on his father's taunts. Sometimes they’re direct and explicit, chunks of ice layered onto his body like bricks, and when he wakes up he’s sweating and heaving and he has to touch his face to make sure the part where he grew big enough to leave wasn’t a dream too. </p><p>But now, House has nightmares about Wilson. </p><p>Dull, hopeless eyes. A cannula, a syringe. Wilson holds his wrist, gripping, squeezing, until bone and tendons whimper, as he waits for House’s shaking hands to deliver the fatal dose. Then, his shallow, fearful breaths dwindle; his fingers tighten one last time around House’s before going slack. Sliding, fading, letting go.</p><p>House wakes up dry mouthed and nauseous and afraid, and he can’t he can’t he can’t he <em>can’t.</em></p><p>He can’t, because Wilson drives the choice he makes every day to hoist himself out of bed. He can’t, because he loves Wilson, and he always has. He can’t, because a life without Wilson isn’t one that he wants. </p><p>He can’t, because Wilson being <em>this</em> sick, at this stage, doesn’t make any sense.</p><p>It’s just past 5am, and their world is quiet and still. Wilson sleeps, his back to the early morning sunlight bleeding through the worn out curtains. House lays one of the spare bedsheets from the closet out on the floor. He pulls the tip off of a marker pen with his teeth.</p><p>He begins to write, sitting on the sheet to hold it still and taut in a pathetic imitation of his whiteboard. He has no team. No access to books or medicines or machines. Nothing but his gift, and it’s going to need to be enough. He watches the black ink make shapes, vague, dismal symptoms he’s written down so many times before, <em>shortness of breath </em>and <em>chest pain </em>and <em>anorexia </em>and <em>dysphagia, </em>and he draws lines around them, labels them with other potential causes that aren’t fucking <em>thymoma, metastasis, end of life.</em></p><p>The sheet is thin, the ink smudges. When House lifts it, he sees little black dots on the worn out grey carpet beneath. He grimaces. He’s running out of space anyway.</p><p>He continues on the stretch of wall between the bed and the window, lists and underlines and circles over the scuffs and cracks and nicotine stains. He carefully spells out all the autoimmune conditions associated with thymoma, none of which Wilson actually has (where the fuck is Cameron when you need her?). He plucks out statistics from some distant pocket in his brain, five and ten year survival rates and their percentages, and he has no clue how he remembers these things as he wipes at his eyes and writes and writes and <em>writes</em>.</p><p>Wilson can’t be dying.</p><p>He refused help the previous night, even as his face turned the shade of sour milk and every breath ended in a vicious cough. House held him between his legs, hand on his forehead, and begged him, at least, to just to go to the ER. He wouldn’t need to be admitted, not if he didn’t want…</p><p><em>No hospitals, </em>Wilson rasped. <em>You promised.</em></p><p><em>I’m worried, </em>House admitted, running his fingers through his unwashed hair. <em>You’re dehydrated.</em></p><p>
  <em>Then go to the store and get me some Pedialyte. I’m fine.</em>
</p><p><em>You need more than Pedialyte, </em>House spoke as gently as he could, wondering when they switched roles quite this much. <em>You need IV fluids.</em></p><p>
  <em>You’re a world class doctor and you’re telling me you can’t handle a little dehydration? </em>
</p><p>Wilson’s attempt at snapping started his hacking all over again, and House rubbed his back over the sweater he hadn’t changed for days. He whispered words of comfort whilst he held his selfish pleas inside, until his chest felt fit to burst: don’t leave me don’t leave me <em>don’t leave me.</em></p><p>At some point, Wilson apologised. House scolded him for doing so as he lifted him from the floor and draped him across the mattress, and his leg screamed at the effort, but it was easy to ignore at the realisation that he could never have lifted Wilson so easily a couple of months ago. He left him there as he crushed a Vicodin into fine powder, along with the Valium he’d decided to purchase after all, and stirred it into water with a little sugar to take the edge off the bitterness. He held Wilson’s hand as he drank it, slowly, then kissed his face as he fell asleep. He laid there beside him for hours; until he couldn’t anymore. Until he had to <em>do </em>something.</p><p>House steps back from the wall. He lays the sheet out across the floor beneath it, so everything is in one place. He stares. He jabs the pen from word to word. He wills his scribbles to morph into something he can work with. Slide together, clamber over each other, slot into place. <em>Something else.</em></p><p>Nothing at all.</p><p>“House?” Wilson sits up in bed, squinting in the new daylight. “What are you doing?”</p><p>House crosses his arms, turning back to the wall. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”</p><p>“House, what the hell?" He hears a rustle; the bed groans as Wilson sits up. "The wall!”</p><p>“Ssh.” House narrows his eyes as the scrawled words dim before him, seem meaningless. “Thinking.”</p><p>And he will think of something, then he’ll persuade Wilson to go to the hospital and have it confirmed. Because he can’t, he <em>can’t</em>, without him. He needs Wilson to be around for as long as possible, and it’s as true now as it was all those months ago back in Princeton. As it’s always been.</p><p>"Stop." There’s more rustling, two soft thuds, as Wilson wrestles his way out of bed. In House’s periphery, his hands slide through the air in exasperation. “You can’t just… put the damn pen down!”</p><p>House ignores his panic, tapping the end of the marker against his forearm in quick, agitated rhythms. “You don’t have cancer, Wilson.”</p><p>“What?” Wilson sounds pitchy, aghast. “Of course I do!”</p><p>House closes his eyes with a sharp exhale, shutting him out. </p><p>“Dammit, House, you saw the scan. You <em>did </em>the scan!” </p><p>He senses Wilson approaching; hovering, lingering. House can almost hear him wondering whether to touch him or not. He wisely opts not to. “Look, come sit down,” he says, and House thinks he’s softening his voice, but it’s hard to tell. He gives a sigh of restrained frustration. “We’ll figure out the wall later. Let’s talk.”</p><p>“Just let me think, okay?” House takes a step away from him; sucks in a breath that trembles. “Let me <em>try. </em>Give me time.”</p><p>His arms tighten around his torso. He waits for Wilson to tell him he’s insane. What he does say, after a considerable pause, is much worse: “I don’t think we have time, House.”</p><p>Wilson stands beside him, in patient silence. Wilson stands with him, even though he’s fragile and weak, to bear the weight of this for both of them, because House can’t step up. And just like that, it feels as though nothing has changed.</p><p>Wilson goes through hardship; House turns his back.</p><p>Wilson is gentle and compassionate; House is destructive and selfish. </p><p>Wilson is damaged and misguided, but he does his best; House is reckless and broken. He never bothered to discover what his best could be, because he knew he'd never meet his own standards.</p><p>Wilson stuck around when no one else would, and now, House is failing him. He failed him every time he dismissed his symptoms. He might as well have tossed 20 years of patience and forgiving and kindness into Wilson’s face when he denied the hopelessness of his condition. Made him feel wrong and weak and selfish for not wanting to carry on.</p><p>House is an expert on avoiding pain. He’ll swallow every pill Big Pharma can create, fuck the prettiest hookers his agency can supply, gulp his way to the bottom of bottle after bottle. His brain is so well trained in diverting unpleasant thoughts that although he could see Wilson’s deterioration, he couldn’t really feel it, process it. But the moment it hits him that Wilson really is going to die is the moment that House realises that his world won’t fall apart, nor dramatically shatter: instead, it will stay perfectly intact as it becomes entirely meaningless. Empty, unable to produce joy or security no matter how much he digs around inside of it, no matter how hard he tries to suck out the last little dregs of something worthwhile. He’s barely aware of the pen slipping through his fingers, landing at his feet with a pathetic thud. </p><p>“This shouldn’t be happening to you.” His voice is flat. He still means it; but he’s exhausted. He finally understands why Wilson never wanted to fight.</p><p>“But it is, House.” Wilson does touch him this time, a soft hand on his shoulder. House flinches; Wilson holds on. “There’s nothing you can do.”</p><p>House thumbs at his lashline. He turns, meeting eyes brimming with love and concern; Wilson extends his arms, tentatively offering an embrace. He silently refuses, instead cupping the back of Wilson’s head. His tears fall freely as he mumbles, “I’ll do it.” </p><p>“Really?” Wilson’s reaction is immediate. Disbelieving.</p><p>House nods, his breaths coming fast and thick. He barely registers Wilson’s surprised grunt as he hurls an arm around his waist. “But…” He blinks, vision like frosted glass. “I’m coming with you.”</p><p>Wilson suddenly feels rigid against him; he draws back, hands landing on House’s chest. His jaw is tight. “Stop,” he says firmly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”</p><p>“When you’re gone, I’m alone.” House runs his hand through Wilson’s hair, over his face; he smiles as he touches every patch of skin he can reach, greedy, can’t get enough. “I have nothing to go back to. No job, no home, no life. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want it. Not now.”</p><p>Wilson shakes his head, fingers curling around his t-shirt. “No. You’re not thinking. This is crazy. S’crazy.”</p><p>He mumbles on, until House’s firm “Wilson” cuts him off. He takes both of his hands in his, cupping them to his chest. “You stuck around when no one else would. You didn’t have to...”</p><p>“This doesn't have to be it for you,” Wilson cuts in to insist. “You’ll figure something out. You'll start over."</p><p>“I don’t want to, Wilson.” House draws a breath, but his tight chest barely allows it down.  </p><p>In the ensuing pause, there’s a moist sort of clicking sound, Wilson wetting his lips with his tongue. His mouth is always dry these days. “I don’t know what to say,” he manages. His tired eyes speak for him: he's horrified.</p><p>“The only thing worse than being a miserable crippled ass, is being a miserable crippled ass without you.” House kisses his forehead, sticky with dried cold sweat. “Remember what you said the other week? About how we do this - <em>euthanise </em>- with good reason?”</p><p>“House,” Wilson tries to protest. “This isn’t-”</p><p>“I’m getting worse too.” House tightens his grip on Wilson’s hands. “I faked my own death, for Christ's sake. Before that, I wrecked my ex-girlfriend’s house and traumatised her kid. And lately, I've proved over and over that I'll never be able to stay clean. I couldn't even do it for you.”</p><p>His examples feel fuzzy and disconnected, like scenes from a movie he hasn’t seen since childhood. They no longer matter. Wilson bites his quivering lip. </p><p>“Don’t make me go through whatever the next stage is gonna be, Wilson.” </p><p>House can feel the desperation etched onto his face like a tattoo, a perfect mirror image of the look Wilson has been giving him all these weeks. And now, Wilson is stricken, distraught; but amidst it, there’s a glimmer of understanding. Empathy, despite himself, for something that makes no sense to him at all.</p><p>And as Wilson nods his head, finally letting House hold him without hesitation, House finds himself envying Wilson that quality for the first time in twenty years.</p><p>**</p><p>Uncertainty clings to House like a shadow. It’s always been that way. Growing up, it was about changing environments, packing up and relocating to a new country, school, with mere weeks’ notice. What pleased his father one moment might piss him off the next; what was considered a minor offence one day could be a crime with grave and unbearable consequences by the following week. As House left home and his world got bigger, the things he couldn’t control became numerous, suffocating; the stuffy asshole who expelled him from med school. A girlfriend who made a life-changing decision for him while he was in a coma. Chairmen and cops with personal scores to settle, falling all over themselves to make him their target. And Cuddy… well, the scariest moments were the ones where House truly felt the uncertainty of what he himself was capable of.</p><p>Tonight, House is finally, completely sure of something: that the last meaningful decision he will ever make is the right one. </p><p>The velvety bite of champagne still lingers on his tongue. He’s vaguely aware of the same scent on Wilson’s breath. They lie face to face, heads cradled by the weak motel pillows. House vaguely remembers making a joke earlier, kind of, though it wasn’t really funny: <em>we’re gonna traumatise some maid, offing ourselves in here. </em>Wilson had looked guilty, then helpless, then resigned: <em>Trying to be a good person didn’t stop me getting cancer</em>.</p><p>Besides, Wilson isn’t really in a fit state to go anywhere else. They decided it didn’t matter. They had everything they needed in each other for one final night, and anything additional could easily be sourced. Wilson did his best to pick at the Chinese food they ordered for tradition’s sake. They even made an attempt at one last cigar, at Wilson's insistence; it only started his cough up again. <em>I told you, </em>House had scolded, snatching it away as he put his out as well. It was only fair. They'd laughed about it, because it would be stupid not to.</p><p>In fact, nothing about the evening had felt sombre. It hadn’t felt particularly celebratory either. It was just… good. Nice. Simple. Everything they could have had for 20 years, if someone had just been brave enough, crazy enough, to say <em>I want you. </em>But regrets were useless. <em>Ifs </em>and <em>why didn’t we’s </em>no longer important. There was nothing more to say.</p><p>As they lay down together for the last time, House tasked himself only with letting Wilson know how much he loved him. That he always had. That he’d walk through fire for him, die for him, that he loved his fucking bones, that he was sorry he had nothing more to offer than tired cliches; then again, these phrases only became cliches in the first place because they were the closest language could get to expressing something that isn't truly definable. House talked until coherency faded, until his dry mouth wouldn’t move anymore: broken declarations of love, reassurances, promises of peace, apologies. He’s not sure how much Wilson heard or processed, but he trusts him to just… know.</p><p>Now, House stares into dazed brown eyes, Wilson’s neatly shrivelled pupils. Hands join between their bodies, digging into his sternum. Their stomachs are pressed together, legs intertwined like yarn. Their noses touch, their lips hover centimetres apart. Wilson’s are starting to turn blue, his breaths stilted, harsh. He’s still. He's tired. House tries to inch nearer, closer, if such a thing is even possible; but his body is like lead, his brain unable to engage the faculties to do anything but lie with Wilson and share all of himself with him. Let him have something so vulnerable, so deeply personal, as his final moments; because Wilson deserves him like this. Without Wilson, he might have done this years ago, alone and scared. He might have never known sincere, resolute, unconditional love.</p><p>It’s getting harder to breathe. It’s like a fever dream, rich and bizarre, and he's lucid but powerless. House isn’t afraid. He never is, with Wilson right beside him. </p><p>He connects with Wilson for the very last time. His eyes are greedy, taking every inch of his face for himself. His slightly uneven, half-open eyes. The whisper of prickly hairs above his lip, swathing his jawline. He drinks in the pallor, the sharp angles, the toll his weight loss has taken. He’s still beautiful, still the same. And even though his voice is clipped, it’s still recognisable as he tries to murmur something, lips like tiny wings; House can't quite make it out, and it’s probably nonsense anyway. He chooses to hear:<em> I love you. You did the right thing.</em></p><p>Wilson is gravity, the other half of his soul. Wilson never left him behind.</p><p>The gentle pulsations of Wilson's chest falter. Slow down. His throat expels something raw and choked. House is dimly aware of the feeble grasp around his fingers slipping, stalling. He zigzags down Wilson’s hand, gropes for his wrist; he prods at the radial pulse site with his fingertips. Once, twice. A third time to be completely sure.</p><p>And then House lets go, satisfied that there’s nothing left to hold on for.</p>
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